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It is a great thing, when our Gethsemane hours come, when the cup of bitterness is pressed to our lips ... to feel that it is not fate, that it is not necessity, but divine love for good ends working upon us.

Edwin Hubbel Chapin

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Edwin Hubbel Chapin
Age: 65 †
Born: 1814
Born: December 29
Died: 1880
Died: January 1
Clergyman
Priest
E. H. Chapin
Edwin Hubbell Rev. Chapin
Thing
Working
Pressed
Good
Hours
Bitterness
Love
Upon
Cups
Ends
Necessity
Come
Adversity
Feel
Lips
Feels
Fate
Great
Divine
Gethsemane

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All natural results are spontaneous. The diamond sparkles without effort, and the flowers open impulsively beneath the summer rain. And true religion is a spontaneous thing,--as natural as it is to weep, to love, or to rejoice.
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The loss of fortune to a true man is but the trumpet challenge to renewed exertion, not the thunder stroke of destruction.
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Profaneness is a brutal vice. He who indulges in it is no gentleman, I care not what his stamp may be in society I care not what clothes he wears, or what culture he boasts.
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At the bottom of not a little of the bravery that appears in the world, there lurks a miserable cowardice. Men will face powder and steel because they have not the courage to face public opinion.
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Whatever may be our condition in life, it is better to lay hold of its advantages than to count its evils.
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Man gains wider dominion by his intellect than by his right arm. The mustard-seed of thought is a pregnant treasury of vast results. Like the germ in the Egyptian tombs its vitality never perishes and its fruit will spring up after it has been buried for long ages.
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A day! It has risen upon us from the great deep of eternity, girt round with wonder emerging from the womb of darkness a new creation of life and light spoken into being by the word of God.
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In the history of man it has been very generally the case that when evils have grown insufferable they have touched the point of cure.
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Nature satisfies my thirst it feeds my hunger it finds me clothing it affords me shelter it wraps me around when I sleep with beneficent and watchful care and it takes me at last to its great bosom, where my ashes mingle with their kindred dust.
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No language can express the power, and beauty, and heroism, and majesty of a mother's love. It shrinks not where man cowers, and grows stronger where man faints, and over wastes of worldly fortunes sends the radiance of its quenchless fidelity like a star.
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How much in this world is charged to chance or fortune, or veiled under a more devout name, and accorded to Providence while, when we come to look honestly into affairs, we find it to be a debt of our own accumulation, and one which we must inevitably pay.
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Truth is poetry it is the grandest poetry.
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Do not ask if a man has been through college ask if a college has been through him if he is a walking university.
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Certainly, truth should be strenuous and bold but the strongest things are not always the noisiest, as any one may see who compares scolding with logic.
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Consider and act with reference to the true ends of existence. This world is but the vestibule of an immortal life. Every action of our lives touches on some chord that will vibrate in eternity.
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O, how much those men are to be valued who, in the spirit with which the widow gave up her two mites, have given up themselves! How their names sparkle! How rich their very ashes are! How they will count up in heaven!
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It is not death to have the body called back to the earth, and dissolved into its kindred elements, and mouldered to dust, and, it may be, turn to daisies, in the grave. But it is death to have the soul paralyzed, its inner life quenched, its faculties dissipated that is death.
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